


To Fall

by serenityofinsanity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Great Game, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityofinsanity/pseuds/serenityofinsanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly, carefully, gradually, John Watson takes his blue eyes and terrible, wonderful jumpers and steady hands and scars, and he slides himself between Sherlock’s ribs and fills in all the gaps that he didn’t know were there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Fall

Sherlock never does anything by halves. He should have known, should have seen it coming the moment John stepped through the door and offered him his phone. He should have seen it in the curve of his mouth and the clench of his jaw and the way he held his cane. He should have seen it in the way John looked at him, with a curious, weathered gaze. He should have known that John was the only one who would ever try to keep up with him.

It didn’t come on all at once; he didn’t just wake up one morning and have an epiphany. It happened in bits and pieces, accumulating in measured looks and tea and miscalculations and bouts of adrenaline and almost-smiles and experiments gone wrong. But Sherlock isn’t an idiot. Everyone’s patience has an end, even seasoned army doctors with a penchant for crime.

It’s inevitable, and Sherlock holds his breath, counting the seconds as they tick by, waiting for the bomb to explode. He knows it will happen, because it always does. John will get tired of running after Sherlock, grabbing at the end of his coat, putting up with his black moods, and trying to tether him to things he thinks he needs, like _sleep_ and _conversation_ and _a clean fridge_. And Sherlock will get bored of John, with his mundane job and military haircut and constant nagging. So Sherlock waits and waits, trying to convince himself that he’ll be fine without John, that he has his skull and the skull won’t boss him around and he likes it better that way.

But John doesn’t leave. He sighs and crosses his arms and glares, and sometimes even spends the night somewhere else, but he always comes back. It’s surprising and perplexing and John is likely the one puzzle that Sherlock will never solve.

Slowly, carefully, gradually, John Watson takes his blue eyes and terrible, wonderful jumpers and steady hands and scars, and he slides himself between Sherlock’s ribs and fills in all the gaps that he didn’t know were there. Sherlock doesn’t even notice, not until it’s far too late. And he notices _everything_.

Most of the time, he can hide it, shove it down deep and smother it with cases and clothes and careful indifference. But sometimes, when he hasn’t slept for too long, he finds himself staring as John makes tea with slow, deliberate movements and hands that never falter, and it rips through all his defenses and settles in his throat, rendering him speechless. Sometimes, John will look up and catch him staring, a strange look in his eyes that Sherlock can’t quite decipher. But then he’ll say something like _“Those blood stains you found are really bothering you, aren’t they,”_ or _“You should sleep for a few hours, you look a bit peaky,”_ or _“Still haven’t figured out a motive, then?”_ and Sherlock will roll his eyes and accept the tea, and the moment will pass.

Sometimes John will come home dripping wet and smiling, and Sherlock can see where John has been touched, and kissed, and _licked_ , and it makes his skin prickle and his hands tremble. Before he knows it he's telling John all of her secrets, unable to control the contempt in his voice. John’s smile fades and he huffs and frowns and ignores him, and Sherlock locks himself in his room and shakes and shakes. His chest _hurts_ , and he’s so _angry_ , and he just wants to tie John to a kitchen chair and watch him struggle, kiss him into submission and make him promise, _no one else_. And it’s pathetic. He’s in love with the man, and it’s sad and petty and utterly pathetic. Sometimes he dreams about carving his traitorous heart out of his chest, because it might be less painful, and it would certainly be less confusing.

And then John is there, at the pool, and Sherlock can’t think or breathe because _John is Moriarty_ and it turns out that having his heart ripped out is more painful than he expected, but it is definitely less confusing. Of course he, of all people, would fall in love with a psychopath. And Sherlock thinks, if he can just bring himself to shoot John, the whole mess will be over and he can sit in his flat and quietly bleed out on the floor.

But then John shifts his parka open and Sherlock thinks _no, this is worse_ , because there’s a red dot aimed at John, _his heart_ , and Moriarty must know. He must. Sherlock has never been more terrified of a dot, and it hollows out his insides with a dull, empty dread.

As quickly as it starts, it’s over.

“All right, _are you all right_?”

John is fine, but Sherlock is _not_ , he’s frantic and dizzy and he wants to scream and kiss John’s open mouth, hold his blond head in his hands and swallow him whole, fold him into the crevices of his being so that nothing, _no one_ can ever touch him again. His hands shake and _shake_ as he rips the bomb away and resists the urge to press his face into John’s stomach and _moan_ , because he’s so dangerously far gone and _what has John Watson done to him_.

His mind is frighteningly muddled as he lies and tells John he’s fine, and half-chuckles at a joke that isn’t a joke, not really.

“People might talk.”

“People do little else.”

Then that deranged voice is back, along with a dozen terrible red dots. Sherlock looks at John. John nods, and Sherlock realizes he’s surprisingly okay with this, dying with John, and taking his greatest adversary down with him.

But then it’s over, _really_ over, and Sherlock struggles to get air into his lungs again. There are gaps in his knees and holes in his head and pins in his chest, because Moriarty’s only weakness is that he’s changeable, and Sherlock’s only weakness is John, and it hardly seems like a fair fight.

When they get home, Sherlock shuts his mouth and stands under the hot spray of the shower until his hands wrinkle and the water turns cold. He schools his face into a blank, impassive mask and sits on the couch, silently tracking John’s movements through the flat, and he thinks that tonight will be the night that John finally leaves. Because surely, _surely_ John must know, he must have seen it in the terror on his face and his frantic, shaking hands. Surely, that would be the last straw, because John would only do so much to get his adrenaline fix. Sherlock is certain that John would rather waste away in an empty flat than let _Sherlock Holmes_ love him.

So he sits on the couch and listens to John make tea and shower and go to bed, and he fights and fights to keep his eyes open, because if he goes to sleep now then he’ll wake up to an empty flat. And _that_ , that would be unbearable. Worse than if John had been shot at the pool.

It’s almost dawn when exhaustion finally claims him, and he slumps awkwardly into the couch, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

Sherlock dreams. He dreams of serene blue and the choking smell of chlorine, of an oversized parka and a gun in his pocket. He dreams that the bomb is sewn into John Watson’s heart, and he can see it pulsing beneath his shirt. He pulls his gun, tries to shoot Moriarty, but there are no bullets, and Sherlock remembers John removing the clip for “safety reasons.” John glares at him and Moriarty is counting down and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, his mind rushing and spinning and turning circles around itself, repeating a mantra of _John John John John John_ and the gun slips out of his hand and clatters on the floor. Moriarty picks it up, levels it, shoots John in the heart even though _there were no bullets in the gun_ and when Sherlock looks down there’s blood seeping from his chest and he thinks _John_.

John is leaning over him on the couch, calling him from sleep, a placating hand on his shoulder. His weary face is striped with equal measures concern and empathy, and Sherlock’s mind is still spinning around _John John John_ and a part of him wonders why John is still here and why he’s bothering to wake Sherlock from his nightmare and before he can think about it he reaches up and tugs John towards him. John is stiff but unresisting, and Sherlock can’t help it, he turns his head and tilts his chin and _there_ , John’s mouth is there, against his, and Sherlock hates himself with a terrible passion. John makes a rough noise of surprise, and Sherlock pulls back abruptly, sliding himself out from under John and off the couch, his heart trying to break clean through his ribs.

He reaches for his coat, striving for distance and chilly air to clear his mind.

John says “No, Sherlock, wait!” Sherlock moves for the door, but John clamps a hand around his wrist.

“Let go of me.” Sherlock’s voice is surprisingly level, and he looks at John over his shoulder. Maybe, if he leaves now, John will be gone when he gets back and he can have a proper breakdown.

“No, you can’t just – _do_ that and then – then _leave_ ,” John says.

“John. Please let go of me.”

“Don’t leave.”

Sherlock squashes the hope that flares in his gut at John’s tone of voice. But when John lets go of his wrist, he doesn’t attempt to move for the door.

“Just tell me. Was it a mistake?” John asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Yes.” Sherlock answers far too quickly, and John frowns.

“Don’t lie, Sherlock, I know when you’re lying.”

Sherlock hesitates, brow furrowed. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, acid seething below the surface.

“What if I said no? What then, John?”

Silence.

“I know what would happen. You would say ‘I’m not gay, Sherlock.’ You would look at me with pity in your eyes. You would want to put more distance between us. You would spend less and less time at the flat. And then, eventually, you would take your terrible jumpers and your – your _tea_ and you would _leave_ – “

“Shut up,” John says. He isn’t angry, but his face is twisted into a mask of emotions. “Just shut up.”

To his surprise, Sherlock does what he’s told. He looks like a caged animal, eyes wild and a little bit helpless, defensive and ready to lash out to keep himself safe. And John loves him.

_God_ , he loves him. So John walks over and puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pushes up on his toes and kisses him, because what else do you do when you’re in love with your mad, brilliant flatmate?

Sherlock freezes, and panic shoots through John’s gut. He pulls away, prepared to apologize, to make excuses. But Sherlock just _looks_ at him and says “Don’t kiss me if you don’t mean it, John,” and his voice is hard with warning and raw around the edges.

John says “Of _course_ I mean it, you _git_ ,” and before he can take a breath Sherlock seals his open mouth to John’s, and John can feel the desperation, the wasted months of gazing and longing and missing him halfway. Something cracks and sparks between them, and John licks into his mouth and strokes his tongue. Sherlock shudders and pulls him closer, hands fisted in John’s shirt.

John reaches up to tug at Sherlock’s ridiculous hair, and Sherlock _moans_ , and that does it. John backs him into the wall with a quiet thump, dragging his teeth across Sherlock’s bottom lip as he pulls back. Sherlock tips forward, chasing the kiss, eyes closed and lips parted. And who is John to deny him?

Sherlock’s hands skip and catch over his clothes, as if unsure where to land. John breaks the kiss to set his mouth against Sherlock’s neck, and _oh_ , how he’s wanted to do that. Sherlock gasps, his hips surging forward of their own accord, and John feels his interest press against his stomach. John kisses and licks and sucks and _bites_ and Sherlock scrabbles and whimpers and tugs at John’s shirt in a half-hearted attempt to untuck it from his trousers.

“Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock says, and it startles John a bit because neither of them have spoken for a while. It startles him enough to notice that Sherlock’s trembling hands are fisted in his shirt, and Sherlock’s breaths are coming short and fast, and he has gone stock-still beneath John’s ministrations. John pulls back, concern cooling his arousal.

“Sherlock? You okay?” John says, albeit a bit breathlessly. “You’re practically hyperventilating.”

Sherlock screws his eyes shut, clutching at his chest, and John thinks _panic attack_. Within a few moments, he has Sherlock sitting in the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand. He rests his palm on Sherlock’s knee and tells him to breathe, tells him it’s fine, there’s no need to panic, and Sherlock frowns and nods and is terribly, uncharacteristically quiet. John’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“Maybe we should take things a bit slow, yeah?” he says.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. If that’s what you want. Yes.”

John smiles and swallows and stands up to give Sherlock some space. But he can’t help it – before he steps away, he kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. He hears him breathe an almost inaudible sigh.

Weeks pass by, and John and Sherlock skirt around each other, testing boundaries and making exceptions and meeting each other halfway. At first, Sherlock responds to John’s affection with surprise, and John resolves to kiss him until he’s used to it, until he takes it for granted, because that’s something that he deserves. John learns that Sherlock likes his hair touched, that he turns into a limpet when asleep, and that he can be very, _very_ vocal, depending on where John puts his mouth. Sherlock learns that John likes the taste of his bottom lip, that the nape of his neck is ticklish, and that he takes an immense amount of satisfaction in giving pleasure to another. They’ve explored each other thoroughly with hands and mouths, and although Sherlock is itching to take the next step, John seems entirely content to remain at their current level of activity. Sherlock decides to take matters into his own hands.

They share Sherlock’s bed, since it’s larger, warmer, and closer than John’s. Sherlock gets everything ready while John takes his daily shower (approximately seven minutes long). He sets lube and condoms on the bedside table, in plain view, and lights a candle. Then he carefully removes his clothes, folding them up and placing them on a chair, and sits down on the bed. He’s more nervous than he would like to admit, which is ridiculous, because they’ve already had sex, and it’s just _John_. Previously heterosexual John, who has no experience with this kind of thing. Who may or may not find the idea repulsive.

Yes. He’s definitely nervous. Which is why, when John steps out of the shower, he’s sitting against the headboard with his knees to his chest instead of sprawled irresistibly across the sheets.

That’s also why, when he says “Take me to bed,” it comes out breathless and more like a question than anything else.

John’s eyes flick to the bedside table. “Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_. God, Sherlock.” He clambers onto the bed, discarding his bathrobe and pants along the way. Sherlock flattens his legs out, relief bursting through him as John sits on his thighs and kisses him senseless.

Somehow or another, they end up horizontal, connected from hips to mouths. John slides a knee between his thighs, and Sherlock’s breath hitches. Their hands slide and squeeze and stroke, and the next time John pulls back, Sherlock snakes an arm out to take the bottle of lube off the bedside table. Wordlessly, he holds it out for John, a plea in his eyes. John takes it with little hesitation, eyes widening fractionally.

“Have you ever – “

“No. This is new for both of us.”

“Right,” he says, no louder than a whisper. He bends to kiss Sherlock again, the lube momentarily forgotten as he licks along his jawline, tugs at his earlobe, and then works his way south with mouth and hands. He drags his fingernails along prominent ribs and licks into his navel, and Sherlock makes little noises of encouragement, one hand sliding through John’s hair and the other fisted in the sheets. John inches down to mouth at the crease of his thigh, and fingers tighten in his hair. He pulls back and hooks his hands under Sherlock’s knees, pushing them up and back.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, and that one word reveals anticipation and arousal and a slight edge of impatience that’s so very Sherlock. John might have laughed if there wasn’t a whimpering, exposed consulting detective sprawled out underneath him. He reaches over to grab a pillow, putting it under Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock swallows as John clicks open the bottle of lube.

“Just tell me if I hurt you,” John says. The air is thick and hot and heavy around them as John warms the lube in his hands. When he sets his fingertip against the little hole, Sherlock quivers, closing his eyes.

“Lots of nerve endings there,” John murmurs. He brackets Sherlock’s hip with one hand and pushes his finger inside. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Sherlock pauses. “Feels a bit weird, is all.”

Slowly, carefully, John slides his finger in and out of Sherlock, watching him for signs of discomfort. Sherlock twitches once in a while, but is otherwise quiet.

After a minute or so, he huffs. “John,” he says, “I’m not made of glass.” If John notices the way his voice trembles over his name, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he leans forward slightly and adds a second finger. Sherlock pushes back against him, hips tilting against the cotton pillow. A flush builds along the length of his body, and John can feel the warmth reflected in his own cheeks and chest as Sherlock’s breathing grows heavy. John flexes and curls his fingers, and it takes a moment, but with the help of his medical abilities he manages to brush against that sweet spot just inside of him. And it’s worth it, _so_ worth it, when Sherlock yelps in a combination of surprise and arousal, arching his spine. The sound twists something in John’s stomach, and he starts up a rhythm, hitting Sherlock’s prostate with every stroke. Sherlock moans and clutches at the sheets and breathes _John_. John adds a third finger, and Sherlock rocks his hips in earnest now, grips at his shoulders, makes little needy noises that go straight to John’s cock, and John has to bite back a moan.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers, “John, I’m – I’m ready.” And John hesitates, fingers stilling, because he has no experience with this kind of thing and Sherlock is exactly the kind of person to hurry things along and he doesn’t want to hurt him but _oh god_ he wants it _so bad_ , just the _thought_ of pushing inside and –

Sherlock grinds himself against John’s hand. “ _Please_ , John,” he whines, and that’s it.

“All right. All right,” he says, and slips his fingers out and thinks _Sherlock Holmes is begging for me_ , and for a moment he’s afraid he might die right there. What an ecstatic death _that_ would be.

John crawls up the bed and fumbles for the condoms. The box drops off the bedside table with a clattering _thud_ , but not before he’s able to pinch one between his fingers. He rips it open and rolls it on, huffing at the contact. Sherlock watches him through half-lidded eyes as John slicks himself liberally, trying not to thrust into his own fist. He braces a hand beside Sherlock’s chest and lines himself up. When he glances up at Sherlock for reassurance, he hesitates. Sherlock looks tense and frantic, fit to burst.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, and Sherlock meets his gaze with eyes wide from arousal. “Sherlock, I – I need you to relax. Just relax.” Sherlock swallows and exhales shakily. He pulls John to him, and their mouths meet in a clash of _hot_ and _wet_ , their tongues stroking and sliding together. John puts everything he has into the kiss, trying to reassure Sherlock, trying to convey all the care and exasperation and lust and worry and _love_ that he feels for the man. Sherlock gasps into his mouth and hooks his leg around John’s hip. John pulls back to watch his face as he slowly, slowly pushes in that first inch. Sherlock’s eyes flutter, head tipping back, and John has to close his eyes because _Jesus Christ_ Sherlock is _so tight_. He gradually pushes in the rest of the way, until their hips are flush, and John is near _dizzy_ with pleasure. Sherlock wriggles underneath him, adjusting, and sighs, a small, content sound that catches John completely off guard.

And maybe that’s why, when Sherlock clenches experimentally around him, John’s vision goes blurry around the edges, and his head drops down onto Sherlock’s chest, and he hisses “ _Fucking_ – “

“Yes, we are,” Sherlock says.

John can’t help it. He giggles into Sherlock’s neck, and soon they’re both laughing breathlessly, and John can’t believe it because he’s _inside_ Sherlock and he can _feel_ his laughter, and it’s terribly, wonderfully indecent. He huffs and turns his head to nuzzle the skin beneath Sherlock’s ear. Curly hair tickles his forehead, and he moves to kiss along his jaw, his chin, up, to taste his smile. He catches Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him fiercely, suddenly, twists his fingers into his hair and scrapes along his bottom lip. Sherlock’s breath hitches, and he arches against him. John moans into his mouth as his thoughts turn to slow, delicious static. He rocks into Sherlock, and Sherlock gasps and thrusts back against him.

“Oh,” John breathes, “Oh _God_ , this isn’t going to – I don’t think – I can last much longer, Sherlock, _fuck_.”

Sherlock hums, licks at the corner of John’s mouth, rakes his nails along the curve of his skull and the dip of his back and the swoop of his ribs, making John’s stomach quiver. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s hips, hooking his feet at the ankles, and the new angle makes John slide in just a bit further. Their rhythm stutters and then John bends to kiss his neck and he hits it, that one spot, and Sherlock cries out and John whispers “Oh, _yes_ ,” and Sherlock knows he’s in trouble

John pulls out, just a little, and rocks back in. Sherlock’s legs tremble against his back. John shifts and grinds his hips in slow, torturous circles, brushing Sherlock’s prostate with every tiny movement. Sherlock tries to thrust back, but John stills his hips with his hands and Sherlock almost sobs. And John takes Sherlock apart, bit by bit, until he’s slack-jawed with pleasure, writhing, babbling and _begging_ , and when John wraps a hand around him he keens and curls his toes and makes a spectacular mess of himself. It only takes John a few more thrusts before he falls over the edge, dissolving into pleasure, Sherlock’s name on his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” John mutters, coming back to himself. He’s splayed on top of Sherlock, their chests heaving in tandem. Sherlock rumbles something that might be considered agreement. John waits for his pulse to slow, and nuzzles the sheen of sweat on Sherlock’s neck. He carefully slips out of Sherlock – to which Sherlock makes a vaguely unhappy noise – and leans over far enough to yank a few tissues off the bedside table. He gives them both a cursory wipe-down, and then settles on top of Sherlock again. They meet in the middle for a kiss, sweet and unhurried and just a little messy. When they break apart, John rests his chin on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s hair is a fluffy, tangled mess, his lips red and swollen with kisses. His eyes are already drifting shut, one hand splayed casually on John’s hip. He can tell from the red marks peppering Sherlock’s slim, pale chest that he’ll have a few bruises in the morning. He looks utterly debauched. Completely devastated.

And John thinks, _he’s all mine_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to leafyavian for her editing expertise. She can be found at leafyavian.tumblr.com


End file.
